The Sec Hub is at a skeleton crew again today, with just the S2 chilling at the CO's desk, and the Desk Sergeant scowling over his coffee at a particularly difficult crossword. The crosswords, by the way, are all done lightly in pencil these days with threat of death to those who do them in pen, thus rendering them useless to others. The page has been erased so many times, poor Sgt. Brandy is having trouble reading the little numbers in the boxes.

Not on duty, nor expected to be for a while, Damon opens the hatch and steps inside. With a small hexagonal pad of paper in his hand and a pencil tucked behind his ear, he steps right past Sergeant Brandy's desk and heads to Salazar's. Moving to sit on the edge of her desk, he looks down to her, gauging her disposition before he utters even a single word of greeting.

Considering Salazar's sidearm is perched in her lap, approaching with caution is probably wise. Her legs are crossed, loaded weapon resting atop her thigh. She's tipped back in that chair there, sharpening her field survival knife. Why the sidearm is unholstered is anyone's guess. Maybe she was expecting Rue to show up.

Thump. The pad of paper lands in the center of her desk for her to see. Sketched on the paper is a simple outline of a Centurion. Next to it is a series of numbers, denoting the measurements of standard ceramic armor plating used in many of the kevlar vests that the Marines wear. Folding his arms, Damon continues to look down to her, speaking quietly. "It'll need approval and one snipe, or a deck worker that has access to a lathe."

"That's very nice, Cavalera, but I don't have a personal fridge to display it on." Salazar's eyes flick from the illustration to the marine. "Besides, Brandy would get jealous if I didn't post his crossword too." She reaches down to slide her knife into her boot.

"By my measurements we should be able to get a couple of plates out of the downed ones. Start ripping out their ammo and weapons. Chances are even the heads could be used as armor." Damon replies, unblinking as he watches her prepare her weapons. Glancing to the pistol on her lap, he raises his gaze to her face. His attitude is cold, probably caring less. "Or would you rather work on your knives?"

"The salutation you're looking for, private, is 'sir'." Salazar's reply is more or less neutral, with the faintest hint of a warning along the edge for those who have their ears perked for such small details. "If you'd like to make yourself a centurion head codpiece, you're welcome to it, but you might want to borrow some socks from friends to stuff it first." She slides her sidearm from her lap, and checks the sight briefly. "On your off time, if you can find a snipe or ape willing to assist on their down time, petition the ChEng for scraps. We have priorities for metal aboard the vessel, what with the gaping holes and structural damage. New armor isn't one of them. Get the frak off my desk."

Unlike most marines, Damon doesn't immediately get off of her desk. Instead, he stares down at her for almost seven more seconds before he slowly rests the heel of his boot against the side of her desk and pushes off. "I'll do that." Damon says, reaching out to grab his notepad. To say that Damon's body language is that of rejection would be a lie, in fact, it's almost as if she told him that the sky on Caprica is blue. He's defiance at its finest. He lowers his voice, turning to face her as he rests his hand on his notebad, well within kicking distance. "If you need help getting his stuff in order, let me know."

Salazar watches Damon, her dark brown eyes on his eyes. She remains seated, matching the gaze. She lifts a hand, and crooks a finger. Come closer, little boy.

Damon doesn't hesitate, nor does he fear. Instead, he sits back on her desk again and leans towards her. "Do it." He says, knowing gods-damned well what's coming. "If you think you can make it hurt, bitch." He says in a whisper.

That's funny, because she doesn't hit him. What Salazar does do is reach up and slide her hand into Damon's locks, before pulling him down hard, doubling his large frame over in a position that probably isn't that comfortable. The grip certainly has to twinge. Cavalera's a big man, though. He can take it. "Damon. You will address me as sir when we're on duty, or I will put a bullet into your leg. Seeing as we're down quite a few marines, my CO may take issue with that, and then I'll be cranky. Are we clear?" Dark gaze holds dark gaze, faces just a few inches from each other.

Damon's eyes, coldly logical, lock onto hers. Despite the pain she's putting onto his scalp, he doesn't even flinch as he's brought so close to her face. "We're clear." Damon replies quietly. Meeting her stare, he keeps his hands to himself. Placing them onto her desk, he holds the furniture only to support himself so that he doesn't fall onto her like an asshole. "When you're off duty, you and I need to talk." He pauses. "Sir."

Salazar finally smiles, but it's a tight little smile, and it's gone quickly. She glances down at his body briefly, the hand gripping the desk, then her eyes come back up to his. "Good boy." That's said very softly, only for Damon's ears. Brandy's clueless over by the hatch, still hunched over trying to figure out a six letter word for apex. She releases him. "Dismissed."

Nodding softly, Damon pushes off of her desk. His foot braces against the side of her chair, forcing it to swivel just a little bit as he heads past her. Taking his notepad with him, he turns away from her desk and heads towards the hatch. Pausing, he glances down to Sgt. Brandy and tilts his head in the direction of the crossword puzzle. "Zenith." Damon offers before he opens the hatch and steps outside.

Salazar shakes her head slightly, and shoves her sidearm into its holster. "Good to know you didn't spend all of your time in prison lurking in the showers."